


Rub a Dub Dub

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cute, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Geralt's 1001 'hmms', Give some kudos to your author oh readers on A03 oOO, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, LET GERALT BE SOFT 2020, Monster guts and blood and gore oh my, Sleepy Geralt, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft boys being caring, TW: mentions of gore and monster bits, You aren't a true Witcher fan unless you've written a bath fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22208446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: there’s a sleepy witcher in the tub.Or Geralt and Jaskier have been on the road for entirely too long, and even our dear witcher is sick of smelling like monster guts (among other things). So he decides to take a bath while Jaskier is entertaining himself at the inn’s bar. The bath, of course, leads to one sleepy witcher, and, eventually, to Jaskier offering to braid his hair. Surprisingly, Geralt doesn’t say no.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 39
Kudos: 317





	Rub a Dub Dub

**Author's Note:**

> This is only fluff. Irredeemably soft fluff. Based off the _Netflix_ series.

“Fuck.” Geralt sank back into the near-boiling bath, and let out one, long exhale. He allowed himself to do so because Jaskier was otherwise occupied— and hopefully would be for a while— by the happenings in the bar attached to their current lodgings. Geralt intended to use the moment of rare, blessed silence to clean up, and hopefully deal with some of the various aches and pains he’d accumulated from monster-slaying and spending long nights on the road.

While this was not the _nicest_ inn they had stayed in, it was far from the worst. Their small room— furnished with nothing more than a straw bed, single pillow, and shabby chair— was tidy. It also smelled faintly of lemon and vinegar, which told the witcher that it had, in fact, been cleaned recently. More importantly, the room’s bath was on the large side. And that was enough to satisfy Geralt.

Usually, he didn’t mind a certain amount of grime and filth and guts and blood— one might even say it came with being a witcher— but as of late, Geralt’s typical grunginess had transformed into _filthiness_. That change was a little much even for him, and Jaskier’s ceaseless complaining told Geralt it was a little much for the bard too. They had been on the road for close to a month, and during the past two weeks, it seemed like every monster and its mother had decided to crawl from between the cracks.

Geralt had taken contract after contract and Jaskier scribbled so many notes about the witcher’s ‘adventures’ that he said his hand hurt. Rare was it for them to stay in a town longer than a day or two, and as a result, their standard of living had been reduced along with their energy reserves. Both men were exhausted. So after the last monster, Jaskier had seemed on the verge of rioting— and frankly, so was Geralt.

Killing monsters _from the inside_ was not something he preferred to do often. Or ever again. And even he had to admit that after _that_ particular contract he stunk to high heaven. So, while his skin had still been warmed by Selkiemore guts— among other things and fluids— Geralt and Jaskier had consulted the bard’s worn map and chosen a direction to travel in. One that lead to a decently-sized town.

Geralt ducked his head under the steaming water and swished it around to remove some of the remaining gunk from his hair. The witcher thought that he’d gotten it all out during his last bath, but _apparently_ he had not. That was the thing about monsters: they were _persistent_ fuckers even in death. He took his time washing— the inn even had decent soap, which smelled vaguely of lavender— and then carefully lathered his hair.

Instead of getting out after the whole washing process was complete, Geralt sunk into the bath until the water reached the tip of his chin. He was tired and sore, if not particularly injured, and neither he nor Jaskier had planned on leaving the following day, or even the day after. Besides, it was _his_ coin paying for the room, so Geralt supposed he was allowed this. The witcher wrung out his hair, and closed his eyes.

**^ ` ^ ` ^**

A hand on his shoulder woke Geralt, and he nearly upset the now-cold bath, he startled so violently.

“Woah, woah, woah, Geralt! It’s just me, Jaskier.” Geralt blinked, and grunted. Jaskier’s familiar scent of lute oil, silk, and lemongrass was diluted by the smell of alcohol, sweat, and women which clung to his clothes. As his heartrate calmed, the witcher settled into the water again, and repressed a shiver. _How long had he been in here?_ The bard’s hand came to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. “Come on, you’ll get sick if you stay in there any longer— if you _can_ get sick, that is.”

Jaskier thrust a towel at him, and kindly averted his gaze as Geralt stood. But when he stumbled a little getting out of the bath, the bard was there, grabbing him by the elbow. “Jaskier.”

“I know, I know, you’re fine. Just… being careful.”

“Hmm,” the witcher replied.

Jaskier released his elbow, but he followed Geralt closely to the bed. The bard only looked away when the witcher dropped the damp towel to pull on his undergarments. When he was dressed, Geralt turned his attention to his tangled hair, ignoring Jaskier’s watchful presence; the bard was no stranger to voicing his opinions, so if he has something to say, he would say it, eventually. And he did.

“Sit down, Geralt.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to go _bald_ if you keep pulling at your hair like that, and it’d be bad business if the White Wolf were sheared.”

“Hmm,” he replied, amused. Or maybe he was just delirious from sleep deprivation. _Yes, that was it_ , Geralt decided, otherwise Jaskier’s suggestion wouldn’t sound so _reasonable_. He sat at the edge of the bed, and nearly groaned in relief. Geralt listened to the sound of Jaskier rifling through his belongings, and then to his slight huff as he dragged the room’s sole chair over to the bed.

“Don’t move. I’m just going to brush your hair,” Jaskier said matter-of-factly behind him.

Geralt appreciated the warning; he didn’t wish to accidentally injure his travel companion, or _embarrass_ himself by overreacting ~~again~~. So he held still as Jaskier picked up his hair. The bard was surprisingly gentle as he brushed through the most tangled strands of Geralt’s long tresses. He even apologized every time the comb caught in a particularly nasty snarl.

Despite himself, Geralt soon found his eyelids growing heavy. _The feeling of the comb was… soothing_ , he reflected, and so was the faint lavender scent that wafted from his clean hair. Jaskier began humming softly, and Geralt blinked again as he tried to place the tune. He was so focused on it that he missed Jaskier’s question, and only realized that the bard was trying to get his attention when the other man gently tapped Geralt’s back.

“Geralt? Do you mind if I braid this? I’d hate for your hair to get tangled again during the night.”

“Go ahead,” he murmured. Then the witcher sensed Jaskier moving away. But the bard soon returned; his presence was announced by the mattress dipping. Geralt cracked open one yellow eye and saw Jaskier looking at him expectantly. “What?”

“Turn around would you?” Jaskier asked. Silently, Geralt obliged. “Now budge up for a second.” Geralt obeyed his companion’s words again, and felt the lumpy pillow they’d been provided pressed into his back, and Jaskier’s knees behind it. “It’s easier for me if you’re leaning back,” Jaskier explained. Then the bard went about his self-imposed task.

The witcher focused on the pleasant and rhythmic tugging sensation of his hair being braided.

**^ ` ^ ` ^**

“Oofff, Geralt, you’re going to crush me, I swear! Get off me, please.”

Geralt blinked, and swam back to consciousness. He blinked again, and realized that he was staring up at the ceiling now— more or less— and that the oddly-shaped bedding beneath him was actually— “Jaskier.” He sat up slowly, and barely caught the yawn that wanted to escape.

“Oh, thank the gods! I don’t know if you’ve been eating bricks or something, Geralt, but you nearly suffocated me.”

Despite himself, Geralt’s lips twitched in amusement. “Hm. Sorry… about that.”

Jaskier smiled fondly, and there was something _warm_ in his eyes that made the witcher feel safe enough to allow his eyelids to droop again. Geralt felt Jaskier’s hand shake his shoulder, and shot a muted, annoyed glare at the bard, who merely chuckled. _Damn him_. “Come on now, Geralt, let’s get you to bed. Can you stand up for me?”

The witcher stood wordlessly, and watched as Jaskier tugged back the covers. When Jaskier appeared to be done, Geralt practically fell face-first onto the mattress. Absently, he noted the faintly musty, but still pleasant, scent of the straw mattress. He groped blindly for the pillow and buried his face in it, ignoring the slightly-sour scent of washed-out sweat. “Fuck.”

Above him, Jaskier laughed. “My sentiments as well, witcher. I do believe it’s been _entirely_ too long since we last stopped in a proper inn. Now budge over.”

“No.”

“Fine, you bastard. Fair warning: I cuddle.”

“Fuck off, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled half-heartedly.

“No, I don’t think I will,” the bard objected. But Geralt heard the good humor underlying the statement, so he said nothing in response.

Distantly, he heard Jaskier move about the room to blow out the candles. Once all were extinguished, he ignored the acrid scent of smoke until it dissipated. Jaskier’s sudden displacing of the mattress jolted Geralt into a slightly-increased awareness, but the bard hushed him, “shh, it’s just me, calm down,” and he pulled up the blanket.

As the bard began humming again, Geralt allowed his eyes to close and _stay_ that way.

**Author's Note:**

> I want nothing but soft Geralt— all day, every day, soft Geralt. 
> 
> If someone wanted to draw this... I wouldn’t be mad.


End file.
